


Wherever I Go, Trouble Seems To Follow

by all_the_angels



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Bandom - Freeform, I have no clue where I am going with this, M/M, i might not even add another chapter, spy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 17:36:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10995690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_the_angels/pseuds/all_the_angels
Summary: During his pleading, Pete grabbed ahold of Patrick's arm, eyes darting over his shoulder. And that was the official end of it for Patrick."YOU ASSHOLE, LET ME GO! I AM NOT GOING WITH YOU TO YOUR "HEADQUARTERS", NOT DEAD OR ALIVE!"---Based off a prompt that somebody asked me to write. God knows where it will end up.





	Wherever I Go, Trouble Seems To Follow

**Author's Note:**

> Whoop, whoop. It's almost 1 in the goddamn morning, and I feel deaddd. But I am finally getting around to... um... doing *something* with this story that has been sitting on my computer for over a month. It is loosely based off a prompt that one of my friends sent me, but I have no clue where it came from so... kudos to where sparked this random idea.   
> Any mistakes, I am sorry in advance. I don't have a beta reader, but I do check over everything I write to ensure that it is best cleaned up and ready for posting.

\---

Patrick Stump. 

A name revered by most, if not all, of the up-and-coming artists in the world. Known as the one and only musical god by those who had already gotten famous on a record label. By those not in the profession of music, his name was repeated profusely over the TV stations, covering the fronts of all the large magazines, his face plastered on numerous billboards for being the most famous and highly renowned music artist of the century.

The man who had been rejected uncountable times in his life by bands, by record labels, by those who heard him playing in the basement of his parent's house. Who embarked boldly upon a solo career, rising up against the ranks despite the rough start and refusals, ending up where he was now:

PATRICK STUMP: WORLD'S MOST TALENTED MUSICIAN?  
THE MAN WHO TOOK MUSIC TO THE NEXT LEVEL   
SPECIAL INTERVIEW: THE GREAT PATRICK STUMP

Only in his mid-twenties, Stump was popular with all-ages for his bouncy, catchy, meaningful music. There was never a song released that didn't top the charts in America, in countries all around the world. There was not a single music station that didn't replay his songs continually, the morning talk-show hosts repeatedly praising the glowing reviews on his albums.

Of all the fame and fortune in the world that was handed to him on a silver platter, the red carpet rolled out before his feet, the cameras that flashed relentlessly, Patrick Stump did not desire any of it. He did not do anything for popularity, he did not care if he was regarded as a legend for his work. He only wanted to make music, and when it became obvious that no one would help him or let him join in, he figured that he was going to have to make a pathway for himself.

And so he did.

Though most people talked endlessly about his music, those who met and knew the man personally preferred to eleborate on him, as a single person. His smile, his laugh, the way he could lighten up any mood, even if it meant making an awkward comment here, a corny joke there. His demeanor was cheery, a brightness that seemed to radiate from his golden smile, an optimism that spread like a contagious disease. If you left him in a room full of people for a few hours, you could return and he would have made friends with each and every one of them personally, and the entire room would be sparkling and buzzing with joyful activity and good cheer.

Did he enjoy his job? Absolutely, no question about it. Did he enjoy those who he worked alongside? Why, of course! Did he enjoy his life as it was? There is where you find some hesitancy, no matter who asked. Yes, he was extremely satisfied by what had resulted from his hard work, the effort he put in to becoming who he was today. Was he entirely happy with being the face of music, constantly hounded by journalists and news correspondents and hardly ever given a moment of peace, to think, to refresh, to breathe?

No. 

He was not about to complain about it, though. Saying he did not prefer being the spotlight of attention all the time would insinuate that he was, and then it would sound as though he were some stuck-up celebrity who thought too highly of himself. 

And that was one of the last things he wanted to project about his image.

Alongside being required to give almost daily interviews, make special appearances alongside Hollywood's largest stars, he was obliged to attend numerous galas, fanciful celebrations for little reason to be hosted, but all the reason for people to attend. Popular people. Stars. Those with a big name.

And therefore Patrick Stump got invited very often to these events, in spite of his aversion of large crowds, the congested feel of so-much-better-than-everyone-else hanging in the air, choking and suffocating the atmosphere. 

He would much rather meet fans, visit children in hospitals, spend the day motivationally speaking to kids in school.

Really anything other than attend these sort of festivities.

However, there he was: hovering off the dance floor, near the bar, where a large quantity of guests were "refreshing" themselves with obnoxious amounts of alcohol, so early on in the evening. He was not one to indulge in more than a single drink, and only did so occasionally.

The crowd was thick, the music thundering from speakers embedded in the walls around the room, the sung words becoming no more than garbles of nonsense, nearly drowned out completely by the speaking done by the many groups of visitors. Everyone seemed to have a cluster of fellow celebrity friends, and those who didn't just mingled about, joining in bits of conversation whenever they felt their opinion needed to be expressed or let known. Several people had come by and made small-talk with the musical genius, but in the dazzling, flashing disco lights above, the way the brightness gleamed off of sparkling rhinestones inset on dresses or flamboyant, reflective glasses that stereotypical movie stars wore, he could not concentrate.

Patrick did not feel a connection to any of these people. They all soaked up the attention like hungry hogs, the talk that went around was always competing against who was better. It was always a match, there was always jealousy and envy and pride mixed in with fake friendly discussion. And he hated it. All of it. He longed for the solitary of his house, where he could kick back and enjoy some television, ditch this itchy, tight suit and replace it with something more casual, the safe place where he was not bombarded by familiar faces that he did not know personally even though they acted as if he did.

Sighing, Patrick lifted his fedora up just enough to brush a hand through his now-tousled hair, replacing it right after. His eyes darted over the scintillating dance floor, the bar full of rowdy and uproarious people - bored. Because really, there was nothing to do when everybody knew somebody. Everybody but him.

He held back another exhale of despair, knowing that he would have to last another few hours of this before he would be able to leave with the few stragglers who had decided tonight was not their time to socialize, or those who finally realized that they had jobs and places to be in the morning. Either way, they would be Patrick's one-way ticket to exiting the raucous party.

Being his unfortunate size, quite short in a world of towering faces who had to look down just to meet his hat-clad head, he was left to stand on his tiptoes, searching the crowd for these certain people who he hoped would leave earlier than expected. He hoped to sneak after them, but he would not make a move until someone else did, so not to get caught and whirled into a confusing, dull and tedious conversation of nothing but falsehoods, rumors, and gossip. And besides, it would be horribly rude to be the first person to leave the party.

"Mr. Stump?"

Patrick directed his attention to the man standing in front of him, who had come up without his notice. Feigning a smile, Patrick dropped back on his heels, to his normal height, but was surprised when the person before him was hardly any taller. Had Patrick not been wearing the fedora that was more of an anxiety-reliever, a self-conscious reassurance when he was being mobbed by the masses of people, he and the well-dressed, finely combed man would have leveled completely.

"Y-You are him, right? Patrick Stump?"

Patrick's practiced smile never dropped and he extended a hand out. "I am, indeed. And you are?"

"Oh, I'm Pete," the man accepted the handshake, returning it with slight vigor, his face ablaze with excitement, then amended his words, "Pete Wentz, that is."

"What a pleasure it is, Mr. Wentz. I, uh, take it you . . . you know -" Patrick gesticulated around the room, scrambling for words that would not make known his distaste for most of the people here, "- hold a position that - you know . . ."

The man smiled, a toothy grin that was partial ecstatic, partial understanding. "Just Pete is fine, and yeah, I get your meaning. I'm a local musician around these parts of town, and just so happened to get lucky by being invited here by a few friends. I didn't know we would have THE Patrick Stump attending tonight, though!"

Flinching at the emphasis, Patrick struggled to keep the smile in place when he realized that this Wentz-guy was just another one of those people. "Ha, yeah! Here I am!" He gave an overly exaggerated flourish of his arms in joke, glancing at the nearest door as he caught sight of it opening. "I- uh, it's a nice party, isn't it? Bunch of great people, and . . . yeah."

God, he was so awkward with these kind of things. He did not know how anyone could put him so high up on a pedestal, how anyone could miss the distinct, inelegant awkwardness whenever he opened his mouth. And it only doubled when he really only half cared about who he was talking with, when his focus was on escaping the first chance he got.

"There are some really cool people here," Pete agreed, his eyes staying pinned gleefully on Patrick. "And so many! I've never been to one of these occasions before, so I'm super elated to get the chance."

"So, um, you said you are a local musician?" Patrick asked, faking curiosity. "What do you -"

"Oh, I play bass in a band with some of my friends," Pete answered before the question could even be finished. "We aren't really the best, like, not even close, and we are going through a rough patch with trying to change up the sound of our songs. Like, make it sound less of a teenage garage band, more of something other people would appreciate, you know?"

Someone in a formal black tux, not unlike what most men were wearing - though there were quite a few who had chosen something more colorful, a dark green or blue or dulled maroon - was pushing his way through the crowd, bumping into Pete in the process. While the two exchanged quick apologies, Patrick took this time to study this Pete Wentz man.

Regardless of being almost the exact height as Patrick, he didn't appear to be any younger at all. In fact, he came off as older, but that was only Patrick's uneducated guess. He had straightened dark hair, black bangs that kept falling into his face, obscuring his vision and causing him to subconsciously push them back every few minutes. The smile that hadn't once left his lips since first speaking to Patrick traveled up his face, made the corners of his eyes crinkle, the look delightfully lighthearted and spirited. The dressy black tux accentuated a well-fit body, a white shirt below the jacket and a classy bow-tie completing the look. He looked nothing short of professional, from the cuffs of his jacket to the shiny shoes on his feet. As if he had taken the time Patrick hadn't to prepare for tonight.

"Anyway, sorry about that," said Pete, turning back to their conversation. Patrick quickly averted his eyes so it was not evident that he had been staring. "It's pretty overcrowded in here, bumping and pushing and shoving is expected."

The door nearest to Patrick, behind Pete and the swarming bodies of mostly drunk guests, opened again, and Patrick's nervousness grew. He needed to get out of here, get some fresh air that was not intoxicated by smoke or alcohol. First step, getting rid of Pete Wentz.

"Yes, these parties are normally this packed, if not more," Patrick said, shifting from one foot to the other. "Uh, if you will excuse me, Mr. Wentz. I am very sorry, but I must go . . . go meet with someone that just passed by. I certainly do hope we will have the pleasure of crossing paths again?"

Pete's face fell, and for a single instant he looked dejected, but perked up and stuck out his hand in Patrick's direction. "Well, it was great meeting, of all people, you! And yeah, who knows? We could even see each other later tonight!"

"Who knows?" Patrick said lightly, a grimace hiding just underneath his smile as he took the hand. 

With that said and done, Patrick inclined his head politely and stepped through the crowd, focused on not reflecting upon his awkwardness. The hole he made through the bunches of people closed up almost instantly, and the more he distanced himself from Pete, the more he expected to feel free. The closer he got to approaching the door, the more he should have felt relieved for breaking off the conversation. With everyone else too preoccupied, no one stopped him or hardly even noticed the short man with his head bowed, sliding through the closely pressed together swarms of bodies. No one paid him any heed, he could almost feel the escape route getting closer and closer . . .

Yet Patrick felt no more rid of anxiousness than he had been when talking to the near complete stranger. He kept glancing behind his back, feeling eyes boring into his back, keenly directed solely at him, watching his every movement, following him no matter where he moved. It only built upon the constricting feeling of being caught in the crowds and caused Patrick to hurry quicker to the exit.

With an immensely relieved sigh, he reached the door. His hand was on the handle, halfway twisted already, when from behind him, fused in the jumbled mess of voices and the blaring music . . .

"Mr. Stump! Wait up!"

He could not quit in his attempt to flee now. He pretended to hear nothing, and maybe he really hadn't - it was too loud to tell, trapped in room. 

The door was thrown open and in his haste, he left it cracked, not completely closed. Stumbling down the few concrete stairs before planting his feet firmly on the ground, he inhaled deeply, letting the cool night air relax his tense muscles. 

He had made it out.

He was free.

The noise from the party could still be heard, even from behind the thick walls of the building, not even drowned out by the distinct sound of the traffic on the road, but Patrick decided that anything was better than being in there. Out here, he was free of the tightness, the official professionalism. He was able to go home and kick back, lounge around and do nothing, eat his favorite cereal from directly out of the box if that was what he wanted. Anything, really. He was not forced to do anything at his home.

He was ready to go.

Starting down the alleyway that was mostly lit by the bright neon lights emitting from the streets, he felt lighter and in better spirits with every step. He had almost broken out onto the street when the building's door he had just exited from slammed shut. 

"Mr. Stump?"

Missing a step, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Oh, hey, um, Mr. Will, was it?"

"Wentz, actually," said the man he had met inside, rushing to catch up. "But, like I said, you can just call me Pete."

"Oh, right, sorry," Patrick reached the end of the alley, glancing both ways down the street to ensure that he would not be seen or stopped by any unsuspecting fans. "Um, is there anything I can . . . I got a call saying I was needed somewhere . . ."

His excuses dropped off when he noticed the smile on Pete's face had become taut. There was not as much twinkle in his eyes, either. His entire aura came off as hurried and worried, so much different than the confidence and excitement that had been evident inside the building. 

Pete held out an arm, catching Patrick just before he stepped out onto the street, having only seen one person strolling away from where he would be heading. Patrick started, quickly stepping away from the touch, making no attempt to cover his shock and surprise.

"Excuse me, what are you doing? I have somewhere I need to be -"

The other man stepped in front of Patrick, and a shadow fell over him. His gut twisted, his eyes widened in surprise and suddenly striking fear. "Mr. Wentz, please step back. I have to leave now, but if you want to stay in contact, I can give you my card -"

"I know this is real abrupt," Pete spoke lowly, and if Patrick weren't frightened, he would have leaned in to better catch the whispered words, "But I need you to come with me." At Patrick's incredulous expression, he grimaced. "No, fuck, that came off wrong. But seriously, I need you to come with me. There's someone here who - uh, let's just say that they're waiting to get you alone and take advantage of you and . . ."

He trailed off, and Patrick took a cautious step back, a scowl overtaking his face. "So, not unlike what you are trying to do?"

"No, it's not like that," Pete winced at his perception of the situation. "Uh, let's see, how can I explain this in a brief way that you'll understand?"

"I think I understand what you are trying to do perfectly well," Patrick said tactfully, distastefully. "I am not dumb, Mr. Wentz. I have somewhere to be, so please excuse yourself or I will have no choice but to go about with means of force."

"And you think the cops would be able to get here in time? Or are you holding out hope that someone from the party would heard you? I'm much faster than that, Mr. Stump."

A fierceness had risen in Pete's eyes, and Patrick froze, his heart pounding against his chest. He had the desperate fleeting thought to call for someone to help him, or to even just alert them that he was now backed into an alleyway with nowhere to run or hide. He unconsciously patted his jacket pocket, feeling around the phone that he always kept near in case someone actually did call him, but his mind flashed back to earlier that evening; in favor of arriving sooner than most guests, Patrick had opted to help set up the speakers and chairs around the large room, and had mindlessly set his phone aside so that it did not fall or get lost. He hadn't had it all evening, and he was just now realizing it.

"Look, I'm sorry, I know that sounds harsh, but I need you to understand that I can do just about anything I want to you without a single other person being alerted," Pete grimaced over his words, as if he hated what he was saying. "Once again, I need you to comply with my instructions and come with me, quickly and quietly. Or else . . . you know what, let's just not think about the what if's. Please?"

He did not care if the man said "please", "thank you", if he helped little children across the street on a daily basis, visited nursing homes, supported his community, or anything. Patrick was not satisfying this stranger's demands. He had all too often dealt with those who tried to lead him away from safety, who were dead set on taking advantage of him. This was not going to happen, Patrick was not willing to just go with a complete and total stalker.

"Listen, Patrick, this is really urgent," Pete's expression softened, though it was hardly noticeable in the dark shade that covered it. "I didn't think it would come to this, and I really can't explain it simply and quickly enough. I . . . we need to get to headquarters. Please. Please, just follow me and I promise not touch or harm you, I just -"

During his pleading, Pete grabbed ahold of Patrick's arm, eyes darting over his shoulder. And that was the official end of it for Patrick.

"YOU ASSHOLE, LET ME GO! I AM NOT GOING WITH YOU TO YOUR "HEADQUARTERS", NOT DEAD OR ALIVE!"

The other man nearly fell back in surprise at the uproar, and his eyes grew wide. Patrick crouched in what he hoped was a defensive posture, trying to prepare himself if a fight was what would result from this, but Pete only appeared more nervous. 

"Look, I'm sorry, Patrick," he reached into his back pocket, feeling around for something distractedly. "But we need to go. Now."

Before he even had time to react, the man - who he had only just met not but twenty minutes before, to the side of the dance floor - dove for him, shoving into him roughly and jerking his hand to Patrick's nose. Instead of skin, something soft, yet doused in sickeningly sweet smelling perfume, brushed under his nose. He did not have time to cry out before his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slipped from consciousness.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> I have no clue if I am going to continue with this story. I have not even the slightest clue as to what would happen next, or where the story would lead, but I wanted to post this and see if you lovelies thought of it?   
> Thank you for reading, I apologize again for any mistakes made, and please do tell me what you think! I would greatly appreciate it! (also... if anyone is looking to help someone with a story, I need it... lol)


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